


Sciencebros Ficlet and Timestamp

by embroiderama



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony helps Bruce in his own infuriating, perfect ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comfort

Ficlet written for the prompt "Bruce, comfort"

Bruce wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting on the sofa staring into space when Tony sauntered into the room. Bruce glanced over and gave him a slight nod then went back to his contemplation of the wall.

“Meditating?”

“Heh, if you want to call it that.”

“Woolgathering?”

“Might be a more accurate description.”

Tony shook his head. “Come on. Get up. Put on something less rumpled, and we’ll go out. Eat. Pick up chicks. Or not. Whatever.”

Bruce forced himself to turn and look straight at Tony. “I’m really not in the mood.”

“What, did you read that report? I told you not to read that report.”

S.H.I.E.L.D. had compiled a report on the various damage that had been done by the Hulk, both catastrophic and relatively minor. The language had been dry, no more emotional than a profit and loss report, but it made Bruce feel sick. He shouldn’t exist, and yet he did. He shouldn’t exist, but he couldn’t die. It was a paradox he had to live with every day, but some days that felt more difficult than others.

Bruce was startled out of his depressive meanderings by the cushions bouncing under him as Tony flung himself down to sit uncomfortably close. They were hip to hip, and Tony wrapped an arm around Bruce’s shoulders as he propped his feet up on the coffee table, ankles crossed.

“Excuse me?” Bruce gave Tony a look that he hoped would send him off in some other direction.

“What, am I interrupting your self-flagellation?”

“Yes, frankly. Why don’t you just leave me to it?”

“I believe it’s called ‘comfort.’”

Bruce snorted. “Right. Guys like me—if, you know, you can say there are any other guys like me—don’t deserve comfort.”

“Bullshit.”

Bruce just shook his head and went back to staring at the wall. He waited for Tony to pull away and leave, move on to something more interesting—which was, clearly, anything. Minutes went by, and Tony didn’t leave. He settled in, leaned against Bruce, invading his personal space in a way that was somehow both passive and thorough. Bruce tried to continue what he was doing, contemplating all of the damage that he had done in the past several years, but it was difficult to concentrate when he had Tony sitting so close. Even when he was being uncharacteristically still, Tony still vibrated with a kind of energy that was difficult to ignore.

“Okay,” Bruce said, finally. “Okay, dinner. No chicks. And I’m not changing, screw you.”

“I accept your counter-offer.” Tony hopped to his feet and held out his hand. Bruce hesitated, then took Tony’s hand and let himself be hauled up to stand. “We’ll get Italian. No better comfort food than Italian.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sounds good.” And the crazy thing was, it did.


	2. An Overabundance of Optimism timestamp

Timestamp to [An Overabundance of Optimism](http://archiveofourown.org/works/412199)

Two months later, Bruce leaned back into the dense upholstery of Tony's couch and took a sip from his beer while watching images of himself and Tony training flash across the huge digital screen on the wall. Tony was talking to Jarvis, trying to get the video cued to just the right point, and Bruce had to wonder if a remote control wouldn't be easier.

Bruce didn't enjoy watching video of himself in Hulk form, but at least the training videos were better than any footage he'd had the displeasure of seeing before. For one, he wasn't hurting anybody or destroying anything that hadn't been put there specifically for him to smash, and that was more of a relief that he could have ever imagined. And then, more shallowly, there were the pants. No guy other than maybe a really narcissistic exhibitionist liked to watch footage of himself rampaging around with his junk swinging in the wind, but after their first awkward viewing session he and Tony had met with a clothing-designer-slash-engineer of some kind.

The pants were made out of some kind of hyper-elastic performance material, and they went from moderately baggy slacks on Bruce to bike shorts on the Hulk. Somehow, wearing pants made struggling to steer the tornado force of the Hulk more bearable.


End file.
